Micrographia in Rhyl

We were crammed into a taxi in a buoyant mood, halftime on the radio and Wales somehow holding their own against Poland. My phone rang out I Believe in a Thing Called Love — yes, the Darkness ringtone, yes it was cheesy, and no, I still couldn’t be bothered to change it. It was Carl Gintis, asking if we were heading to Bar Blu. Of course we were. He’d hyped Micrographia so relentlessly on my message board that not going would’ve felt like being caught miles offside. He also wanted to know if I’d enjoyed the “lament” they’d recorded for me at 2:20am the previous Sunday. I’d woken up to a two-minute answerphone epic titled Apple Pie, which I’d mistakenly credited to a mate winding me up because I’d skipped the Dudley the night before. Turns out it was a private rendition of a brand-new Gintis song. Karma balanced itself later when Carl went home thirteen pints deep and managed to christen his own carpet.

Alcohol, as usual, set the tone. Sync and I were steadily working through pints of the golden stuff, while Gwynn and a mysterious friend lurched upright to drunkenly strum a few songs. I contributed my standard heckles — “show us yer tits” and “fuck off you hippies” — and was pleasantly surprised to get a hearty “fuck off” in return. Fair’s fair.

Meanwhile, Wales did what Wales do: 1–0 up, then 3–2 down. We celebrated the goal with a pint and mourned the collapse with six or seven more.

The Circuits were meant to play, but apparently flipped open the Rock ’n’ Roll Guide to Non-Appearance Excuses and landed on the classic: “Our drummer choked on a wasp and is in hospital.” Conveniently, they didn’t show.

The crowd at Blu has shifted since the ill-fated Jives Room gig. People vote with their feet, and tonight most had chosen to stay home. The newer crowd felt more “night out” than “night for music.” About seventy people were in — quiet for Blu — and soon sixty-nine when Sync admitted defeat and staggered home, leaving me to face the band from Bangor alone.

Trying to pin down Micrographia is tricky. Imagine Flotation Toy Warning without the singer, add a handful of seasonal magic mushrooms from an Old Colwyn golf course, and take cover. That’s roughly the vibe. While their peers churn out paint-by-numbers punk, this very young band seemed to have lifted the effects tracks from a Hawkwind record and turned them into a live set. No drummer — just a surprisingly great backing track — which is high praise from someone who usually loathes drum machines. Thirty minutes flew by, a canoe ride through liquid mercury: repetitive but addictive bass lines threading between two wildly different guitars. Ridiculous metaphor, I know, but somehow it fit.

I asked the promoter what their demo sounded like. There wasn’t one. He’d booked them purely on Carl Gintis’s enthusiasm. Brave move. Worth it.

You can sit through endless nights of bands serving up the same lifeless indie-punk mush, originality as thin as a makeup advert. But every now and then, you stumble onto something like Micrographia — and suddenly all those pints and all those dull support slots feel justified.